


The Love Song of Arthur J. Kirkand

by mikkey_bones



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Academia, Alternate Universe - Academia, Christmas, Coffee, Graduate School, Holidays, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 08:46:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkey_bones/pseuds/mikkey_bones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur measures out his life in coffee spoons, or: Francis is addicted to coffee, Arthur is addicted to Francis, and somehow they make it work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Love Song of Arthur J. Kirkand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oatrevolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oatrevolution/gifts).



> So this is a late birthday present for [Lois](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oatrevolution), and when I say late, I mean her birthday was April 1. With a few additions here and there I have now turned this into a Christmas-type fic and I hope it works out. I also apologize (insincerely) for the entirely gratuitous academia in this fic. Enjoy!

[ _Arthur measures out his life in coffee spoons_.]

1.

When there isn’t an exam coming up, Arthur’s office hours are often lonely.  He holds them twice a week, from twelve to two on Mondays and Wednesdays; usually, he ends up eating his lunch in the office and reading a book, alone.  Francis, who seems to have nothing to do but read Derrida and complain about the students in his beginning French class, visits him occasionally.

“You should hear them attempt _vowels_ ,” he tells Arthur one wintry afternoon, pouring instant coffee into the mug of hot water that Arthur provided, letting the spoon clink against the mug as he stirs.  Arthur remembers meeting Francis in an undergraduate summer program, and how thick his accent was then.  Now his command of the English language is not only intelligible, but also musical.  “And the _r’_ s, as well.  They sound like kittens, coughing up hairballs.”

Arthur makes a face.  “That’s not the most pleasant metaphor,” he comments.

Francis ignores him, taking a sip of his coffee and then making a face.  Arthur, who hates coffee, has taken to keeping a bag full of instant coffee packets in his office just for Francis’s visits.  It’s the furthest he’s willing to go to feed Francis’s caffeine addiction, and he enjoys watching Francis react to the taste.  “They speak French worse than you do, my dear,” Francis adds in an obvious attempt to poke holes in Arthur’s amusement.

Arthur rolls his eyes again.  “And I read French better than _you_ ,” he commented.  “And Latin.”

“Old French, dead languages,” Francis replies, a smile playing at the corners of his lips as he waves off Arthur’s response.  They have this debate so often it has ceased to become an argument – at least, it has ceased to become an argument about the validity of their respective disciplines.  Instead, they snipe at each other to pass the time.  “That’s hardly of any use.”

“Latin is the basis of all modern Romance languages and you know it,” Arthur snaps.  He’s known Francis long enough to know when he’s being baited, but he’s never been able to resist a challenge.  Especially one from him.  But there isn’t any real venom in his voice.

“Yes, yes, but who actually uses it now?  Medievalists,” Francis says.  This argument is old and familiar ground.  “And the Church.  Not only are you old-fashioned, darling; you are also perilously close to being a Papist!”  He laughs.

Arthur rolls his eyes.  He has never been particularly religious.  “Whatever you say,” he replies, and smirks when Francis takes another sip of his coffee and looks appalled.  Another day, he would take up the argument; today it’s foggy and the cold drapes over everything like a wet blanket.  He’s satisfied enough with his tea and the present company.

“When is your class?” Francis asks suddenly, looking up from his coffee to gaze at Arthur with piercing blue eyes.

Arthur blinks.  “At three,” he says automatically.  That means he has about an hour and a half free.

“Wonderful,” Francis says.  He places his half-finished coffee mug on the table, then leans over the desk and kisses him.

2.

Somehow Francis gets roped into serving as a translator for a visiting professor who is going to speak (in French) about the Muslim presence in premodern Europe.  Arthur suspects nepotism, or some form of favoritism at the very least, as Francis specializes in twentieth century literature and philosophy.  Surely there are other French natives who could translate.

And Francis feigns nervousness.  Perhaps it’s not all a show; he reads the visiting professor’s book before the lecture and he asks repeatedly whether Arthur is going to be there.

As it’s Arthur’s field, more or less, he figures he might as well attend.  He sits in the back row and watches while Francis, dressed in a suit that makes him look even more fashionable than usual, delivers his translation.  Arthur, who is familiar with the difficulties of translating on paper, when one has all the time in the world, is impressed in spite of himself with Francis’s skill.

“How do you think it went?” Francis asks him later, over coffee.  He left the gathering in honor of the professor early in order to make this date.  But they were all boring anyway, he had added when Arthur had admonished him.

“You know very well how it went,” Arthur replies, leaning forward to inhale the steam from his tea.  He’s drinking Earl Grey as usual; he used to be more experimentative but his tea preferences have grown more settled with (relative) old age.

Francis laughs.  “But I would like to hear it from your lips, my dear,” he says, giving Arthur one of his brilliant smiles before turning his attention back to his latte.  He has been drawing incomprehensible patterns in the foam with the edge of his spoon.

Arthur rolls his eyes.  “You didn’t mess up too badly,” he grumbles.  If you give Francis an inch, he will take a mile; Arthur knows from experience that this praise is enough.

“I’m glad you think so,” Francis says with a pleased laugh.  He stretches his legs out under the table; his ankles bump Arthur’s but neither of them pulls away.  “Was the lecture interesting?”

“Interesting enough,” Arthur replies, though on second thought, he realizes he didn’t pay much attention to the subject matter.  Rather, he had spent the entire time watching Francis.  The realization makes him color slightly and he looks away.

Francis nudges his leg.  “What are you doing tonight?” he asks.

“Reading,” Arthur replies.  He’s always reading – that, or he’s buried in the campus archives, doing his research on medieval folklore.  It’s led him to some interesting places.  But archives aren’t usually open at night.

“Me too,” Francis replies.  Francis’s work lies in books and articles rather than archives.  “I’ve got to refamiliarize myself with Foucault’s entire _oeuvre_ for discussion tomorrow.”

The corners of Arthur’s lips threaten a smile.  “That shouldn’t take you more than, what, an hour, right?” he asks with mischief clear in his tone.

“ _Tais-toi, mon cher_ ,” Francis replies, and Arthur laughs.

3.

It’s the last week of the semester and Arthur has a to-do list that’s about a mile long, which is why he wakes up at nine a.m. on a Saturday morning.  As he stirs, he’s surprised that no one is next to him.  Francis usually sleeps in past noon on the weekends, if he can, especially when it’s cold.

When Arthur finally pads into the kitchen Francis is already there, hovering over the coffeemaker that he brought with him when he finally moved in.  It’s making unhappy brewing noises.

“What, has it finally broken, the old thing?” Arthur asks, sidling up to Francis.  Out of old habit he places an arm around his waist, resting his hand comfortably on Francis’s hip.

“Not hardly,” Francis replies, smiling and leaning in to kiss Arthur on the temple.  “Good morning to you too.”

“Why are you up so early?” Arthur asks over the gurgling of the coffee machine.  “It’s Saturday.”

Francis shrugs against Arthur’s shoulder.  “I decided to follow your example and make a to-do list,” he says.  “It turned out to be longer than expected.  Our department is preparing for a lecture series next semester and I’ve been put in charge of the publications.  Have I told you that?”

“No, you haven’t,” Arthur replies.

The coffee machine gives a few last, dying spurts.  Francis moves away from Arthur to get a mug.  “I have to solicit each lecturer for summaries of their talks and write them up for our posters and brochures.  They are keeping us all to a very strict timeline.”  He laughs.

Arthur watches Francis pour his coffee.  “A timeline?  That sounds terrible,” he says with some amusement.

Francis gives him a glance with an expression that tries and fails to be unamused.  “We are a cultural studies and comparative literature department,” he replies, moving to the refrigerator.  In the mornings he takes his coffee with milk and sugar; in the evenings he takes it black.  He says that he wishes to wake up gently.  “Timelines are anathema to us, as are deadlines.”

Arthur laughs.  “I know that already,” he replies.  “I’ve lived with you long enough.”  In the morning, he drinks a cup of tea, so he stops teasing Francis in order to put the electric kettle on.  He used to have big breakfasts but lately he has gotten used to eating breakfast like Francis does – just bread or biscuits with butter and jam, something simple to tide him over until lunch.

“So what is on your list for today?” Francis asks as he stirs sugar into his coffee.  He leans against the counter and watches Arthur prepare his tea.

“Nothing too much,” Arthur replies.  As the kettle heats up his water, he turns to regard Francis.  The winter sun is behind him, making his messy hair a halo of gold.  Arthur often wonders what he did – what _they_ did – to end up like this.  He often considers himself lucky.  Here and now, he is content.  “I’m still working on that book with Professor Yao.”

“The East and West anthology?” Francis asks.  “You know, _mon cher_ , ‘East and West’ as a guiding concept is horribly–”

“Horribly essentialist, Orientalist, and imperialist, yes,” Arthur replies with a slight smile.  He’s heard it all before, and taken it into account, too.  Francis will probably be glad to read the foreword to their anthology.  “If you’re not too busy in the evening, would you like to go out for dinner tonight?”

4.

Arthur is woken from sound slumber at two-thirty a.m. by a clattering noise from the kitchen.  He continues to lie in bed for a few minutes, but sleep, which came so easily to him that evening, proves impossible to recapture.  He turns over, groans quietly, and stands, padding out of his room and squinting in the bright kitchen light.

Francis is there, looking up with a guilty smile as he wipes the floor with a rag.  “ _Bonsoir, mon cher.  Ça va_?”

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” Arthur replies, his annoyance tempered by fondness.  “You’re already lapsing into French.”  He can understand everything Francis is saying.  He just doesn’t want to reply – like most native English speakers, he’s a bit shy with his French accent.

“ _Ça va_ to you too,” Francis replies and stands, wobbling slightly as he tosses the rag into the sink.  He moves to Arthur to give him a sloppier-than-usual kiss.  Arthur reaches out to take his elbow and steady him.  “You should have come, Alfred was there, I love it when you two argue.  He missed you, I think.”

Arthur shrugs.  There’s a time and a place for historical disputes, and while Elizaveta’s holiday parties were probably the perfect time and place, he was still recovering from an unusually busy week, what with finals and everything.  “I was having a nice, sound sleep.”

“We were discussing various theoretical frameworks for the principle of historical and civilizational continuity,” Francis continues, ignoring Arthur and making even less sense than usual.  “I forced him to define ‘civilization.’  We need to work beyond these stupid Eurocentric paradigms...”  He lets his head loll onto Arthur’s shoulder and mutters something into Arthur’s neck, which tickles.

Arthur’s hand finds its way into Francis’s hair.  “What’s that?”

“You smell nice.  I love you,” Francis says more clearly, though his voice is still muffled.  He isn’t one for such outright declarations; both of them prefer to skirt around this topic whenever it comes up.  Arthur feels his ears flush and a sudden rush of warmth in his chest.  He forgives Francis just about everything, including the noisy arrival that brought Arthur out of bed in the first place.

The coffeemaker beeps, and Arthur starts, forgetting whatever sweet nothings he was going to say in return.  “You were making coffee?”

“A proto-hangover remedy,” Francis replies, detaching himself from Arthur in order to lurch to the cupboard, getting out a coffee mug, and then the silverware drawer, taking out a spoon.

“Not hardly!” Arthur replies, indignant at this complete travesty of a hangover remedy.  “Alcohol dehydrates you and coffee’s a diuretic; if anything this is going to make your hangover worse!”

But Francis is already pouring coffee into his mug with a look of utter concentration on his face.  With a sigh, Arthur fetches the milk from the fridge.  “After this, drink some Gatorade,” he says.  “Then come to bed.”

Francis manages to get a full cup of coffee without any major spills, but when he adds the milk, he pours too much and some coffee slops onto the table.  Before Francis can do anything about it, Arthur fetches the rag from the sink and wipes it up.  “Merci beaucoup, mon cher,” Francis says, capping the milk and stirring the coffee.

The spoon makes a clinking noise against the ceramic sides of the mug.  “I’m going back to sleep,” Arthur says, tossing the rag back into the sink.  “When you go to bed don’t put your cold feet all over me.”

Over his manic stirring, Francis looks at Arthur.  “I _do_ love you,” he insists.  “ _Je t’aime. Toujours_.”

It’s only because Francis is drunk, Arthur tells himself.  He probably won’t remember this in the morning.  That’s why halfway out of the kitchen, Arthur pauses and turns back to smile at Francis.  “Love you too,” he says.  In six years that’s the fourth time he’s said it out loud.  Usually, they say it other ways.

5.

The debris from the holiday party is scattered around the room – tinsel, a few haphazard garlands here and there, cups and plates and the sad-looking remnants of a cheese tray.  In the midst of the clutter, Arthur is still seated on the couch; Francis has gone off to make himself some coffee.  Decaffeinated, with respect to the late hour.

Arthur isn’t sure whether he finds the addiction amusing or annoying.  He hears the coffeemaker beep; seconds later, Francis is poking his head into the kitchen.  “Are you sure you don’t want any?” he asks.  “I can make it Irish.”

So Francis _had_ hidden the Bailey’s somewhere.  “I was looking for that,” he said, more exasperated than annoyed.

“My apologies,” Francis says.  Even after the guests have left (Alfred being the last, and practically pushed out the door), he refuses to lose his stupid smile.  “Would you like some?”

Arthur waves a hand.  “Fine.”

A few minutes later, Francis comes back into the living room with two mugs in hand, surveying the mess.  “We can clean up later, can’t we?”

Arthur pats the seat next to him.

They sip the coffee slowly and, in Arthur’s case, contemplatively.  He’s not sure what Francis is thinking.  Then again, he’s never entirely sure.  He watches as Francis absently stirs whatever mixture he’s created for himself.  Arthur’s coffee is paler; Francis knows he prefers the taste of Bailey’s to the taste of the coffee itself.  Francis knows most of Arthur’s preferences.

“Perhaps next year we’ll get a Christmas tree,” Francis says out of the blue, taking the spoon from his coffee and putting it down carefully in someone else’s cup.  The gesture is slightly absurd – as is the sudden suggestion.

“It would never fit in here,” Arthur points out.  The apartment is fairly small, even for an academic’s standards, and every spare surface is covered in books and papers.

Francis smiles at him.  “A small one.  What do you think?  It would be homey.”

“Homey,” Arthur repeats dryly.  Still, he reaches out until his hand finds Francis’s, so that they can lace their fingers together.  “Tonight was a success, I think.”

“Especially since it ended before midnight,” Francis replies with evident relief, squeezing Arthur’s hand.  “And no one got too terribly drunk.”

“Except Alfred.”

“Except Alfred,” Francis agrees.

Arthur thinks he could get used to this – casual intimacy, quiet conversation.  Then he pauses mid-sip as he realizes he’s _already_ gotten used to it.  This.  This is their life now.  He lowers his cup and turns to Francis with renewed wonder, and is embarrassed to see that Francis is already looking at him, an amused expression on his face.

“Something the matter?”

Arthur shakes his head.  No, there’s nothing the matter.  “Merry Christmas,” he says, instead of anything like _you’re amazing_ and _I’m so lucky_ and _how did this happen_ and _I wouldn’t change a thing if you paid me_.

Francis laughs.  “Joyeux Noël,” he replies, then leans in for a kiss.


End file.
